Winter hits Paris… Report from 22 November




A Report:

that is not sharp and loud like a gunshot, but dark and obscured like Paris in this cold, cold November.

Josie welcomes you into her private line of sight. Hear that? It’s the sound of cashiers crying softly. While Mr. Rigettini is killing English grammar in self-defence. Benjamin, afflicted by unrequited love, writes To Whom I Do Not Concern. Vivienne Vermes, “the voice of the eurostar” asks if Alice is making a cup of tea. Here, hell is glorious. Thin people clutch at colour. The tavern belches us into the dark. But… what happens to the hole when the cheese disappears?
Dylan, catgut missing, asks “Who marks the horizon?” Stefanos falls entirely in the dark ink, the breeze of time. Rafael de Quebec sait que la poesie brise des choses. Troy scrambling the wires to make you faint, satirising Margueritte Duras. Ariel brings contrary thunder; and a singularity, sucked into the bell jar. Michélé in The Panic Attack of an Artist, like a rebel poet forgotten by the hourglass of the starving soul… in the broken down building of tears. He is leaving Paris to discover the other side of the ocean.
Maxx threatens to turn up with our magazine, Issue Zero, tomorrow night.
Cheers all,
David
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